Heartland (True North #7) - Sarina Bowen Page 0,36

somewhere out on the road.

And that's it. She doesn't return.

I keep my eye on Dylan after that. He has glassy eyes and a wobbly smile, thanks to the flask he and Keith have been passing back and forth.

A moment later he checks his watch, subtly. But it’s enough to make the girls cackle.

I pluck my marshmallow off the stick and eat it. I clean off the stick and prop it up against the empty food table. But all the time I’m watching Dylan.

After a few more minutes, he stands up, placing a hand on Keith’s head, saying… I have no idea what he might be saying. Goodnight. Or, I have to check on something. Or, I’ll be back in twenty after Debbie blows me. I don’t know how casual sex works.

Either way, he stands up. Casually, he plucks a few empty cups off the ground and carries them over to a recycling bin his mother thoughtfully left nearby. Then he walks—his hands in his pockets—slowly toward the bunkhouse.

I can tell even from this distance that he’s been drinking. He doesn’t stagger. Just the opposite—he’s taking too much care with his gait.

Retracing Debbie’s steps, he steers around the bunkhouse, heading for the dark place behind it, where there’s just a strip of grass before the tree line closes in.

Dylan does not emerge a minute later on the other side. He’s disappeared.

And now the girls on the log are doubled over in laughter. “How long do you think he'll wait?”

My face heats up in sympathetic embarrassment. I don’t believe this. These girls count themselves as Dylan’s friends? Is that how friends behave? They enjoy your hospitality and then laugh behind your back? My pulse pounds in my throat.

Somebody's got to tell him, and I guess that somebody is me. So I stand up slowly, slipping away from the fire. I’m used to being invisible, and nobody is watching me as I become the third person to walk toward the forest’s edge. I take a different route through the shadows of the cider house, out of sight from those girls.

I cut across the pitch-black lawn toward the back of the bunkhouse. It's really dark back here, and I feel a little skittish sneaking around near the tree line. Some horror movies begin like this.

At first I can't guess where Dylan might be waiting, but then I notice that the door to the outdoor shower is ajar. And as my eyes grow more accustomed to the dim light, I spot Dylan's Chuck Taylors under the saloon-style wall. He’s whistling softly, a stray melody from one of the fiddle tunes he played earlier.

The sound is so very Dylan. It’s patient, maybe a little lazy, but still cheerful and fun. Suddenly, there's nothing creepy about this moment. I pace toward the open door where the grass gives way to a bed of pebbles.

The crunch of those pebbles announces my presence. I'm just about to say something when the whistling breaks off. Two hands reach from the open door, seize my hips, and pull me inside. I let out a gasp of surprise as my back hits the wooden planks. Then Dylan’s mouth descends toward my open one.

Oh! My gaze locks with his.

His eyes widen immediately, but it’s too late. The kiss is like jumping off the Quechee bridge into the river. Once your feet leave the edge, you’re going into the water whether you’ve come to your senses or not.

And so we jump. Together.

Dylan’s firm lips collide sweetly with mine. I taste toasted marshmallows and whiskey as our breath mingles. My reaction is swift and fierce; my hands grip his shirt, and my tongue melts against his.

He makes an eager grunt, and I feel it rumble through my chest. His lips press and kiss, and then they do it again.

Dylan Shipley is kissing me. Really kissing me. His tongue strokes mine, and his body presses me against the wall.

My knees are Jell-O, and I don’t ever need to breathe again. I’ll just stay right here, thanks, while Dylan takes second and third helpings of my eager mouth.

Everything is total bliss for at least thirty seconds, until a loud pop startles us both.

Dylan jerks back, as if it were the firing squad coming for him. A half-second later, I recognize the sound as the first firework splitting the night sky. But the damage is done. Dylan takes a staggered step backward, chest heaving. He lifts the back of his hand to his mouth, as if sealing it